#protective reader

inspired by this post @callmeoncette

The flashing cameras almost blinded you the second the two of you stepped out of the black SUV.

“Michael! Michael over here!”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Michael, is the relationship getting serious?”

“Y/N! Y/N!”

Michael’s hand tightened around yours immediately, thumb rubbing softly against your skin in that quiet way he always did whenever crowds got overwhelming.

“You okay?” he murmured softly.

You looked over at him in disbelief.

“Am I okay? Baby, are you okay? They yellin’ like zoo animals.”

Michael physically had to bite back a smile.

“Baby”

“No, because why are they barking at us?”

The interview host standing near the carpet entrance laughed awkwardly before quickly straightening up when Michael looked over.

Michael lowered his head slightly, curls falling near his face as he tried to compose himself.

“C’mon,” he whispered, gently guiding you forward.

The relationship had gone public barely three weeks ago, and the media had been losing their minds ever since.

Not because Michael Jackson had a girlfriend.

But because you were absolutely terrible at public relations.

You didn’t smile politely at rude questions.

You didn’t dodge disrespect.

And you definitely didn’t care about Hollywood etiquette.

Which explained why Michael’s publicist currently looked like she was five seconds away from cardiac arrest.

The interviewer smiled brightly as cameras zoomed in.

“It’s wonderful to have you both here tonight.”

“Thank you,” Michael answered sweetly.

You nodded. “Appreciate it.”

The interviewer turned toward Michael first.

“So Michael, your fans have been very curious about this relationship. It’s definitely surprised a lot of people.”

Michael smiled politely. Calm. Practiced.

“Well, I’m very happy,” he said gently. “She’s very special to me.”

Then the interviewer looked at you.

“And what’s it like dating the biggest star in the world?”

You shrugged.

“He steals my food.”

Michael looked scandalized.

“I do not steal your food.”

“Yes you do.”

“I ask for it.”

“You ask after it’s already halfway gone micheal.”

The interviewer laughed softly.

Michael covered part of his face, already embarrassed.

Then the interviewer made the mistake.

“So…” she started carefully, “there’s obviously been conversation online about your age and maturity level compared to Michael’s. Some people think you may not fully understand the pressure that comes with being with someone like him.”

Michael’s smile dropped instantly.

You felt his hand squeeze yours once.

Warning, begging even...

Please don’t.

“Uh,” Michael started softly, “I don’t really think...”

“And some critics,” the interviewer continued, “have questioned whether you’re prepared for this kind of public relationship.”

Michael inhaled slowly.

“Baby,” he whispered under his breath.

Too late.

You blinked at the woman.

“What kinda stupid-ass question is that?”

The entire audience and crew went silent.

Michael froze beside you.

The interviewer stared.

Cameras zoomed in on you so fast it was almost violent.

You frowned.

“No seriously. How are you qualified to have this job if that’s what you ask people?”

“baby” Michael whispered, horrified.

“I’m serious,” you continued. “Y’all get paid to be weird and disrespectful on television and then act shocked when somebody says something back.”

The interviewer looked absolutely stunned.

“Well, I...”

“And another thing,” you cut in. “Every interview this man does, somebody feels comfortable disrespecting him as long as they smile while doing it.”

Michael looked down at the floor, shoulders already shaking slightly.

“You ask rude questions, pry into his personal life, make slick comments, then try to hide behind professionalism when people call it out. It’s weird.”

The interviewer opened and closed her mouth for a second.

“And now suddenly I’m immature because I’m not sitting here pretending that question wasn’t rude?”

“Baby,” Michael mumbled weakly, “you can’t say that on television.”

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Yes I can and I will.”

“And honestly,” you continued, “half the interviews he does feel less like interviews and more like y’all trying to see how uncomfortable you can make him before he reacts.”

Michael physically turned away now, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing.

The interviewer awkwardly cleared her throat.

“S-So Michael… about the question I asked earlier...”

“What she said,” Michael answered immediately.

The interviewer stared at him in disbelief.

Michael finally looked back over at you with the brightest grin you’d seen all night.

--------

By the time the two of you finally made it inside the venue, the tension from the interview had completely shifted.

Mostly because Michael could not stop laughing.

“You embarrassed me,” he whispered as the two of you walked through the hallway toward the backstage area.

You looked at him incredulously.

“I embarrassed you?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, still smiling. “You attacked that poor woman.”

“She attacked you first.”

Michael shook his head, curls bouncing slightly.

“You called her stupid on live television.”

“I said the question was stupid.”

“That is not better.”

You crossed your arms dramatically.

“Well maybe she should stop asking dumb questions then.”

Michael tried to stay serious for about three seconds before another laugh escaped him.

“There you go again,” he mumbled.

“Oh, don’t do that,” you said, pointing at him. “Don’t act so pleased with me now after sitting there acting all shocked.”

“I was shocked!”

“You were laughing!”

“I was trying not to!”

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously.

“You liked it.”

Michael immediately looked away.

Which told you everything.

Your mouth dropped open.

“Oh my God, you DID like it.”

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Michael covered part of his face with one hand, already smiling again.

“You should’ve seen your publicist’s face,” you continued. “That lady looked like she was about to pass out.”

“She probably was.”

“Well maybe next time they’ll stop asking you weird questions.”

Michael slowed down slightly then.

The teasing expression on his face softened into something else, something softer.

Something genuine.

“You really don’t like when people disrespect me, huh?”

You looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“No. I don’t.”

For a second, Michael just stared at you.

Then he smiled again.

this time

Smaller

“…I like that.”

You sighed and moved closer. “Of course he did.”

Theo guided Keeho toward your car while you opened the back door. The moment you tried to help him inside, Keeho stiffened like a man possessed.

“Woah woah woah,” he said loudly. “Absolutely not.”

You paused. “Keeho, get in the car.”

He pointed a shaky finger at you, eyes narrowed with drunken conviction. “Ma'am, I am already taken,” he announced. “And I will not get into a mysterious vehicle with a stranger.”

Theo doubled over laughing.

You clenched your jaw. “Keeho...get your ass into the car now.”

He leaned closer, squinting at you as if the answer might suddenly appear. Then he snorted.

“I see,” he said. “You are very dangerous.”

You stared at him.

“A siren,” he continued, nodding to himself. “A beautiful siren. Trying to lure me into your shiny metal trap.”

Theo wheezed behind you.

You turned and shot Theo a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He only laughed harder.

“Not today Satan,” Keeho said firmly. “I am strong. I am loyal. I will not be seduced.”

“Get in now!” you repeated through your teeth.

He crossed his arms. You did not argue anymore. You grabbed him by the jacket, shoved him onto the backseat, and shut the door before he could protest again. The sound echoed like victory.

Theo wiped tears from his eyes. “Text me when you're home.”

You flipped him off and got into the driver’s seat.

As soon as you pulled away, Keeho started talking.

He babbled about the music being too loud, about someone stealing his drink, about how proud he was of himself for resisting imaginary temptations. He asked you your name three times and decided each answer was suspicious. At some point he declared the car seats very judgmental.

Ten minutes later, his voice softened. His words slurred into nonsense. His head tipped to the side. He fell asleep mid sentence.

The city lights blurred past while the car filled with quiet. You glanced back once and shook your head.

When he woke up, the world looked different to him. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the softer light. He shifted, groaning.

“…My head...what the-”

You glanced at him through the mirror. “Rise and shine.”

He frowned, then really looked at you. Recognition bloomed like sunrise.

“Y/n,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

He sat up a little straighter, suddenly sheepish. “Where did you come from?” he asked. “I swear you weren’t there before.”

You laughed despite yourself and kept driving, already knowing tomorrow would be worse.

Theo

It was well past midnight when the noise dragged you out of sleep. A soft thud, followed by metal scraping against metal, then a quiet curse that sounded far too polite to be an intruder.

You groaned, pushed yourself out of bed, and padded toward the door. The sound came again. Someone was very seriously negotiating with the lock.

When you opened the door, you found Theo standing there, jacket crooked, hair slightly undone, one hand gripping his keys like they had personally offended him. He stared at the lock with intense concentration.

“What are you doing?” you asked, voice still thick with sleep.

He startled and looked up at you. His eyes widened, then softened immediately.

“Oh,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You blinked. “Theo?”

He frowned gently, studying your face like a puzzle he was too tired to finish. “I think I may be at the wrong door,” he said apologetically. “This keeps happening tonight.”

You glanced at the keys, then back at him. “Are you drunk?”

He paused, considering the question with care. “Yes,” he admitted. “I did have quite a bit to drink.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for his wrist. “Come inside before you wake the neighbors.”

He stumbled a little as you pulled him in, catching himself on the wall. He immediately straightened and smiled at you.

“Thank you,” he said warmly. “You’re very kind.”

He looked around the apartment like it was a museum. “But I should tell you,” he added, lowering his voice, “I am already in a very beautiful relationship.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s great, Theo. Now go to bed.”

He shook his head, suddenly very serious. “No, no. I’ll take the couch. It wouldn’t be right. I have a girlfriend.”

You guided him toward the bedroom anyway. He resisted gently, like a man trying to follow rules written in fog.

“Theo,” you said, patience thinning. “I am your girlfriend.”

He stopped walking. Blinked once. Then again.

“…You are?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes.”

He leaned closer, squinting like before, then smiled slowly. “Well,” he said, “if you are, then she’s very beautiful.”

You laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. “Oh Good god."

You pushed him gently onto the bed. He landed with a soft bounce, grinning up at you.

“Wow,” he murmured.

You pointed at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He reached for your hand, squeezing it with sudden sincerity. “I love her,” he said earnestly. “So much. I really hope you get to meet her one day.”

Your laugh came out softer this time. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You started helping him out of his jacket, then his shoes, moving carefully while he watched you with unfocused affection. He hummed quietly, completely relaxed now.

“Thank you,” he said again, eyes already drifting shut.

“For what?” you asked.

“For taking care of me,” he answered, smiling. “She does that too. She’s wonderful.”

You shook your head, smiling to yourself, and pulled the blanket over him. He was asleep before you finished, still smiling like he’d solved something important at the very end of the day.

Jiung

The bar was already loud when you stepped inside, all warm lights and overlapping laughter, but Jiung’s voice cut through it easily. He sat between the others, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, talking with his hands like the world depended on it.

“And I’m telling you,” he said earnestly, “she’s beautiful. Like, unfairly beautiful. And pretty. And guys...the things she does in bed...”

You stopped short.

Keeho choked on his drink. Someone else laughed. Jiung kept going, completely unbothered.

“I mean, truly incredible,” he continued, nodding to himself. “I wake up and think, wow. That’s my life.”

Heat crept up your neck. You walked over and tipped his shoulder with the back of your hand. “Jiung,” you warned.

He turned around.

His eyes widened immediately, big and round, like a startled cat. He stared at you for a long second, then looked around at the others.

“Oh my god” he said slowly, pointing at you. “She looks exactly like my girlfriend.”

The table exploded into laughter.

Your shoulders dropped as the realization hit. He was gone. Completely drunk.

You sighed. “Hilarious, let's go”

He laughed, bright and musical, shaking his head. “I’m flattered,” he said kindly, patting your hand like you were a stranger with a bold proposal. “But I have a girlfriend.”

You nodded, biting back a smile. “Of course you do.”

You grabbed his hand anyway and tugged him up. He stumbled to his feet, still laughing, and leaned back toward Keeho.

“Hyung,” he said seriously, gripping his sleeve. “If you see my girlfriend, tell her I tried to resist.”

Keeho was already crying laughing. “I’ll make sure she knows.”

“Thank you,” Jiung said solemnly. “I don’t want her mad. She’s very scary when she’s mad.”

You dragged him toward the door while the others waved you off, still amused. Outside, the cool night air hit his face and he sucked in a deep breath, blinking.

You stopped him under the streetlight and grabbed his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. “Pull yourself together.”

He froze.

His eyes focused. His brows knit together. Then something clicked.

“…Wait,” he said softly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

A slow, radiant smile spread across his face. “Baby...it's you.”

Relief washed through you. “Finally.”

He laughed again, this time softer, happier, and leaned forward to press a sloppy, affectionate kiss to your lips. It was clumsy and warm and very drunk, but full of relief.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Why were you pretending to be yourself?”

You shook your head, smiling despite everything. “You embarrassed me in there.”

He giggled, resting his forehead against yours. “I was telling the truth,” he said proudly. “She’s amazing.”

You wrapped an arm around him and started guiding him down the street. He leaned into you easily now, recognition fully settled, steps still unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” he added after a moment. “I really thought you were a clone.”

You laughed. “Of course you did.”

He smiled at you again, eyes half closed, happiness unmistakable. “I’m glad it was you who came,” he said. “I missed you. Even when I didn’t know it was you.”

Intak

Soul warned you the moment he stepped inside, one hand still steadying Intak by the shoulder.

“He had too much,” Soul said calmly. “A lot too much.”

You waved it off, already reaching for Intak. “I’ve got him.”

Intak blinked at you, eyes glassy but bright, lips curled into a lazy smile. He swayed where he stood, clearly enjoying the sensation of standing upright despite gravity’s objections.

Soul watched for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. “Good luck.”

The door closed, and you turned your full attention to Intak.

“Okay,” you said gently, voice automatically shifting into the tone reserved for children and drunks. “How about you put on your Pj's and go to bed huh?"

He nodded immediately. Very seriously. “Yes.”

You guided him toward the bedroom, hands hovering just in case. He shuffled obediently, humming to himself. Once you stopped him near the bed, you gestured at his jacket.

“All right. Let’s get you changed.”

He froze.

“Wait,” he slurred, holding up a finger. “Turn around.”

You laughed. “Why?”

He frowned, brows knitting together as if you had asked something outrageous. “Because,” he said slowly, “I am taken.”

You bit back another laugh. “You are?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Only my girlfriend can see me naked.”

“That’s very respectable of you,” you said, amused. “I’ll turn around.”

You faced the wall, arms crossed, still listening carefully. Behind you, there was some fumbling. Fabric rustled. A zipper made a tragic attempt at cooperation.

Then came a soft thump.

“Ouch,” Intak said dryly.

You turned around immediately. He was sitting on the floor, legs awkwardly folded under him, pants halfway undone, expression more surprised than hurt.

You sighed. “You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “The floor attacked me.”

You crouched down in front of him. “Let me help you.”

He immediately shook his head, trying to scoot back. “No, no. You said you’d turn around.”

“I won’t look,” you promised. “I’m also in a relationship.”

He paused. Considered this.

“Oh,” he said, brightening. “Okay then.”

You carefully helped him out of his pants, keeping your eyes very deliberately on the carpet. He relaxed instantly, shoulders dropping, trust absolute.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Once his legs were free, his head tipped forward. His eyes fluttered.

“Intak?” you asked.

He was already asleep.

You burst out laughing, quietly, as you eased him onto the bed. He didn’t stir as you removed the rest of his clothes, working around limbs that had gone pleasantly boneless. Every so often he mumbled something unintelligible, completely at peace.

You pulled a shirt over him, tugged the blanket up, and brushed his hair out of his face. He smiled in his sleep, like he’d won something.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered fondly.

He snored in response, loyal even in dreams.

Soul

Soul was never build for champagne.

You realized that somewhere between his third glass and the way his laughter started lagging half a second behind reality. Now you and Jongseob were practically carrying him out of the album launch party, one arm each, Soul’s feet doing their best impression of cooperation.

You glanced down at him, squinting. “How are you this drunk already?”

Jongseob adjusted his grip and sighed. “He didn’t eat anything.”

Soul giggled at that, head lolling forward. “That’s not true.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I had strawberries,” he said proudly, lifting a finger like he was presenting evidence.

You snorted. “Those were in the champagne.”

He paused. Thought about it. Then laughed again, delighted. “Oh.”

The night air hit you as the doors closed behind you. It was cooler outside, quieter, the city humming instead of shouting. Jongseob pulled out his phone.

“I’ll get a cab,” he said. “Don’t let him fall asleep.”

“Great,” you muttered. “No pressure at all.”

Jongseob stepped away, already tapping at his screen. You stayed with Soul, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back, the other steadying his arm.

“Eyes open, Soldier,” you murmured.

He groaned softly and lifted his head, eyes half open, unfocused. He looked at you like you were a very pleasant dream.

“You’re like really cute,” he said.

You smiled faintly. “Aww thanks.”

He tilted his head. “Have we… met before?”

You froze for a beat, then realized the glassy confusion behind his eyes. Alcohol was steering the wheel now.

You nodded. “Yeah. We met before.”

His face lit up with quiet satisfaction. “Ha! I thought so.”

He studied you carefully, then nodded again. “You’re pretty.”

You laughed under your breath and patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Soul.”

“But,” he added solemnly, “I’m in a relationship.”

“You don't say,” you said gently.

He seemed relieved, like he’d passed an important moral test. Then his foot caught on nothing at all and he stumbled sideways.

You reacted instantly, bracing him as he bumped into you. He clutched at your shoulder, arm draping around you naturally, weight leaning in.

He went very still.

“…Y/n,” he said.

You looked down at him. “What?”

His eyes sharpened just a little, recognition flickering on like a shy light. He squinted at you, then smiled, soft and surprised.

“How did you get here so fast?” he asked.

You closed your eyes and sighed. “Unbelievable.”

He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours, still smiling like he’d just solved a magic trick. You kissed his cheek quickly, fond and practiced, and kept him upright.

“Jongseob,” you called out, voice carrying into the night. “Where is the damn taxi?”

Jongseob waved from across the curb. “Two minutes!”

Soul hummed contentedly, cheek warm where you kissed it, arm still secure around your shoulders. He relaxed again, drunk logic satisfied, trusting you completely.

You shook your head, rubbing his back as the city lights blurred softly around you.

Jongseob

The club was loud enough to rattle your bones, but Jongseob’s absence was louder. You checked the bar, the dance floor, the corners where conversations went to hide. Nothing. A familiar itch of worry settled in your chest.

You pushed through the back door and found him outside.

He leaned against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, posture loose and dramatic like he had rehearsed this moment. The neon light caught his face just right, eyes glassy, smile lazy.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked.

He looked at you slowly, then grinned. “Being cool,” he said. “Like those guys in movies.”

You stared at him for half a second before reaching forward and pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. “You hate smoking.”

He nodded immediately. “Yeah.”

Then he paused, squinted at the cigarette in your hand, and pointed at himself. “But I look really hot doing it.”

He swayed a little as if to prove his point, then coughed, bending forward with a rough laugh.

You chuckled despite yourself. “Yeah, very cool. Go drink some water.”

He straightened and waved you off. “I’m fine.”

You crossed your arms. “Are you sure about that?”

He nodded firmly, eyes closing for a second as he tried to keep the world steady. “You sound like my girlfriend.”

Your smile faltered.

You looked at him more closely then, at the unfocused way his gaze slid past your face instead of landing. He didn’t recognize you. He was gone-gone.

Before you could say anything, his expression changed. His hand flew to the wall and he turned sharply away.

You followed him instinctively, one hand already rubbing his back as he threw up, shoulders shaking. You sighed softly, not surprised at all.

“yeah,” you said gently. “You drink, then you smoke, then this.”

He groaned miserably, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stayed bent forward for a moment, breathing slowly, the night air cooling his flushed face.

Then he lifted his head.

He blinked once. Then again.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice small. “Y/n”

You softened instantly. “Hey.”

He said your name quietly, like saying it anchored him back into his body. “I don’t feel so good.”

You nodded. “I know.”

You took his hand, warm and slightly trembling, and squeezed it reassuringly. “Let’s go home now.”

He didn’t argue. He leaned into you instead, trusting, exhausted, embarrassment already creeping in around the edges of sobriety.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as you guided him away from the wall. “I tried to be cool.”

You smiled and pressed your thumb into his palm. “You don’t need cigarettes for that.”

Beside you, Bucky sleeps on, warm and solid and completely unaware, his arm draped loosely over your waist. His presence is usually enough to ground you. Usually enough to make the episodes shorter, quieter.

But tonight—

Tonight is different.

Because the moment your eyes fully open, you see it.

Standing at the edge of the room.

Too tall. Too still. Too wrong.

Your heart lurches violently against your ribs, panic slamming through you in a wave so strong you almost think it should break whatever hold this is. The shape doesn’t move, but you know—you know—it’s looking at you.

Watching.

Waiting.

No, no, no—

You try to speak. To call Bucky’s name. To do anything other than lie there helpless as your brain screams and your body betrays you.

Nothing comes out.

Your throat won’t work. Your jaw won’t move. You’re trapped behind your own eyes, forced to watch as the thing shifts.

It doesn’t walk.

It glides.

Closer.

Your vision blurs at the edges, tears gathering without falling, terror clawing up your spine as it crosses the room in slow, unnatural increments. Every instinct you have is screaming at you to move, to run, to do something—

But you can’t.

You can’t.

You can’t—

It stops at the side of the bed.

And then—

It tilts its head.

Toward Bucky.

Something inside you snaps.

No.

Not him.

Your fear fractures, reshapes, turns sharp and furious in your chest. The panic doesn’t disappear, but it changes—redirects—because whatever this is, whatever your mind is conjuring, it is not touching him.

Not Bucky.

Not yours.

You fight harder.

Every muscle strains, every nerve screaming as you try to force even the smallest movement. Your fingers twitch—barely—but it’s something. You cling to it, push harder, harder, harder—

The thing leans closer to him.

Your vision tunnels.

Your heart feels like it might explode.

Move.

Your arm jerks.

It’s weak, clumsy, but it’s real.

Move.

Your leg follows, then your shoulder, control snapping back into your body all at once like a rubber band finally breaking free—

And you lunge.

There’s no hesitation. No thought.

You throw yourself across Bucky, arms wrapping around him, pressing your body over his like a shield as if you can physically block whatever nightmare still lingers in your vision.

“Don’t—!” your voice finally works, raw and shaking. “Don’t touch him—”

Bucky startles awake beneath you.

Hard.

Years of training kick in instantly—his body tenses, metal arm shifting, ready to react—but it halts the second he registers you.

You.

On top of him.

Clinging.

Shaking.

“Hey—hey, doll—” his voice is rough with sleep and sudden alarm, hands coming up carefully, not pushing you off, just… holding. Grounding. “What’s goin’ on? You okay?”

You’re still half there, half not. Your eyes dart toward the side of the bed, expecting—

Nothing.

The room is empty.

Dark. Quiet. Safe.

Your breath stutters, coming too fast now, your grip on him tightening like you’re afraid if you let go, something will come back.

“It was—” your voice cracks. “It was here, Buck, it—” You swallow hard, shaking your head against his shoulder. “It was gonna hurt you.”

There’s a pause.

A beat where he processes that.

Then everythng about him softens

“Oh, baby…” His arms wrap around you properly now, pulling you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head as he tucks your face into his neck. “Hey, it’s okay. I got you. You’re alright.”

You cling to him harder.

“I couldn’t move,” you whisper, the words small, embarrassed despite everything. “I tried to wake you, I couldn’t—I thought—”

“I know.” His voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it, steady and warm and there. “I know what it is. You told me, remember? Sleep paralysis.”

You nod against him, breath still uneven.

“It felt real,” you admit quietly. “It looked like it was coming for you.”

He huffs softly, not quite a laugh, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “And what’d you do about it, huh?”

You hesitate.

Then, quieter, “I tried to protect you.”

That does something to him.

You feel it.

The way his chest rises a little deeper, the way his arms tighten around you—not in fear, not in tension, but something softer. Something fond.

“You threw yourself on top of me,” he says, voice low and almost… amused.

“I didn’t want it to get you,” you mumble.

There’s another pause.

And then he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression impossibly soft, blue eyes warm even in the dim light.

“Doll,” he says gently, brushing his thumb under your eye where a tear finally escaped, “I’m a hundred years old, got a metal arm, and a body count that would make most people run for the hills.”

You sniff weakly.

“And you still decided you were gonna be my bodyguard?”

Your lips wobble despite yourself.

“I didn’t think about it,” you admit.

“I know you didn’t.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there.

“That’s what makes it so sweet.”

Your arms loosen slightly around him, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb, leaving you tired and a little shaky. He notices immediately, shifting so you’re not hovering over him anymore, guiding you gently down so you’re tucked against his side instead.

One arm stays wrapped around you.

The other pulls the blanket up higher.

Safe.

“Next time it happens,” he murmurs, voice quiet against your hair, “you don’t gotta protect me, alright?”

You hum faintly, not fully agreeing.

He smiles into your scalp, tightening his hold just a little.

“But…” he adds softly, “I gotta say, I don’t mind knowin’ you would.”

Your eyes finally close, exhaustion pulling you under for real this time, your breathing evening out as you settle into him.

And long after you’ve fallen asleep, Bucky stays awake for a while.

Just holding you.

Just thinking.

Because no one’s ever looked at him and decided, without hesitation, that he was worth protecting.

You’ll be sitting at breakfast, halfway through your food, when the back of your neck starts prickling with that unmistakable feeling of being watched. You glance up, slow and careful, and sure enough—there she is. Across the pavilion, elbow on the table, staring straight at you like she’s trying to figure out how easily you’d snap in half if she decided to test it.

The first time it happens, you freeze.

The second, you look away quickly.

By the third, you force yourself to hold her gaze for a second longer than feels safe.

Clarisse doesn’t look away.

She just keeps staring.

Like she’s waiting.

For what, you have no idea.

It continues like that for days.

At the training arena, you’ll be practicing with a sword, trying to focus on your footwork, when the same feeling creeps up your spine. You glance to the side, and there she is again, leaning against one of the posts, arms crossed, watching you with that same intense, unreadable expression.

If you mess up, she clicks her tongue.

If you recover, she nods once, sharp and approving, before pretending she wasn’t paying attention at all.

At the campfire, it’s worse.

You’ll be sitting with a few other campers, half-listening to whatever story is being told, when you feel it again—that weight, that focus, that impossible-to-ignore presence—and when you turn your head, Clarisse is there, standing just outside the circle of light, her face half-shadowed and her eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

It’s unsettling.

Not because she looks like she’s about to hurt you.

But because she doesn’t.

Clarisse La Rue looks at most people like she’s already decided they’re not worth the effort.

She looks at you like she hasn’t decided anything at all.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You try to ignore it.

You really do.

You tell yourself she’s just making sure you don’t go running your mouth about what you saw in the Ares cabin. About the hoodie. At the moment, she didn’t look like she had all the answers.

It makes sense.

Clarisse doesn’t trust easily. Everyone knows that.

This is probably her version of a warning.

A silent, looming, ever-present reminder that she’s watching you, that she knows where you are, that you’d better keep your promise.

It’s intimidating.

It’s effective.

And after nearly a week of it, it’s also incredibly annoying.

Because she doesn’t say anything.

Not once.

No threats. No insults. No actual confrontation.

Just—

Staring.

Watching.

Hovering at the edges of your space like a storm that refuses to break.

You catch her outside the cabins one afternoon, leaning against the wall like she’s been there for a while. The moment your eyes meet, she straightens slightly, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

But instead of walking over, instead of saying anything at all—

She just… looks at you.

Again.

That’s when something in you snaps.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just enough.

You change direction mid-step and walk straight toward her.

Clarisse’s posture shifts immediately, her shoulders squaring like she’s preparing for impact, her chin lifting in that familiar defensive angle.

Good.

Let her brace.

You stop a few feet in front of her, close enough that she can’t pretend this is accidental, close enough that walking away now would mean something.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Clarisse’s gaze flickers over your face, searching, cautious in a way she’d probably deny if anyone pointed it out.

“What,” she says finally, her voice sharp enough to cut, “do you want.”

You blink at her.

Then you laugh.

It’s not mean, just disbelieving, a little breathless with the sheer absurdity of it all.

“What do I want?” you repeat. “Clarisse, you’ve been staring at me like you’re planning my funeral for the past week.”

Her eyes narrow instantly. “I have not.”

“Oh, you absolutely have.”

“I don’t—” she cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “I look at people. That’s normal.”

“Not like that,” you shoot back. “Not like you’re trying to set me on fire with your brain.”

Clarisse scoffs, but there’s something off about it—less confident, more… defensive.

“If you’re scared,” she says, folding her arms like that settles the matter, “you can just say that.”

“I’m not scared,” you reply immediately, stepping closer without thinking, because if she’s going to push, you’re going to push back. “I’m annoyed.”

That gets her attention.

Clarisse straightens fully now, her gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. “Annoyed.”

“Yes, annoyed,” you repeat, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “Because if this is your way of trying to intimidate me into keeping quiet about your—” you lower your voice slightly, glancing around before continuing, “—your soft side, it’s overkill.”

Her entire body stills.

Not in the way she does before a fight.

In the way something freezes when it’s been hit directly.

“My what,” she says slowly.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, the frustration finally spilling over now that you’ve started. “The hoodie, Clarisse. The fact that you’re not just—” you wave your hand, searching for the word, “—all of that all the time.”

Her expression does something complicated.

For a second, it looks like anger.

Then it flickers into something else. Something sharper. Something almost… panicked.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she snaps, a little too quickly, like the words have been sitting just under the surface, waiting for an excuse to come out.

You blink.

“…What?”

Clarisse’s jaw clenches.

Her hands flex at her sides, like she’s trying to grab onto something that isn’t there.

“I said I’m not trying to scare you,” she repeats, louder this time, like that’ll make it easier to believe. “I don’t—” she cuts herself off again, clearly irritated now, her gaze darting away for half a second before snapping back to you. “That’s not—what I was doing.”

You stare at her.

Because that… doesn’t make sense.

“Then what were you doing?” you ask, your voice softer now, confusion bleeding into it despite yourself.

Clarisse opens her mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again, like she’s about to say something measured, something controlled—

Instead, what comes out is—

“I like you.”

The words hit the air like a thrown weapon.

Sharp. Fast. Impossible to take back.

Silence crashes down immediately after.

Your brain stalls.

Completely.

Because—

What.

Clarisse seems to realize what she just said about half a second too late.

Her eyes widen, just barely, and then her entire expression slams shut, defensive walls snapping back into place so fast it’s almost impressive.

“I mean—” she starts, voice rough, already backtracking, already trying to bury it, “—you’re—useful. You don’t—run your mouth. That’s—what I meant.”

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

You just look at her.

Clarisse shifts under the weight of it, visibly uncomfortable now, her shoulders tightening like she’s bracing for impact.

“Don’t make it weird,” she mutters.

That’s when you reach out.

It’s not planned. Not thought through.

Your hand just moves, fingers closing around her wrist before she can step back, before she can put distance between you and whatever just happened.

Clarisse goes completely still.

Not resisting.

Not pulling away.

Just… frozen.

Her gaze drops to where you’re holding her, then lifts back up to your face, something uncertain flickering in her eyes in a way that doesn’t match anything else about her.

You step closer.

Close enough now that there’s no space left for misunderstanding.

“Clarisse,” you say, your voice quieter, steadier than you feel, “if you like someone…”

She tenses at the word.

“…you’re allowed to just talk to them,” you continue, softer now. “You don’t have to stand across the arena and stare like you’re about to declare war.”

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

For once, Clarisse La Rue has absolutely nothing to say.

You can see it—the confusion, the embarrassment, the unfamiliar territory of not knowing how to fight your way through something.

And for a second, she looks younger.

Not weaker.

Just… less certain.

You squeeze her wrist gently, grounding, not restraining.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, a small smile tugging at your lips, “if you actually came over and talked to me.”

Clarisse stares at you.

Really stares.

Like she’s trying to figure out if this is a trick. Like she’s waiting for the moment you laugh, or pull away, or prove that this was all a mistake.

You don’t.

You just stay.

And something in her finally… shifts.

Not all the way.

Not completely.

But enough.

You lean in before you can overthink it.

It’s quick.

Soft.

A brief press of your lips against her cheek.

For a second, Clarisse doesn’t react at all.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Doesn’t even blink.

Then you pull back.

And just like that, the moment breaks.

Clarisse jerks like she’s just been struck, her hand flying up to her cheek, her eyes wide in a way that’s almost comical if it wasn’t so her.

“What—” she starts, voice cracking slightly before she forces it steady, “—what was that.”

You grin, unable to stop it now.

“That,” you say lightly, “was me being less subtle than you.”

Her face goes red.

Actually red.

Not from sunburn, not from anger.

From something else entirely.

She scowls immediately, like that’ll fix it. “That was—stupid.”

“Mm,” you hum, already stepping back, giving her space before she can panic and bolt. “Maybe.”

Clarisse glares at you.

But it’s weaker now. Less sharp around the edges.

“…Don’t do that again without warning,” she mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “So I can do it with warning?”

Her brain visibly short-circuits.

“I didn’t say that.”

You grin wider. “You kind of did.”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face like she’s reconsidering every decision that led her here. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” you shoot back, turning to leave before you can say something worse—or better—“are terrible at talking to people.”

“Hey—”

You glance over your shoulder.

Clarisse is still standing there, one hand hovering near her cheek, her expression caught somewhere between annoyed and completely thrown off.

“You’re improving, though,” you add, softer this time.

She huffs, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“…Next time,” she mutters, almost to herself, “I’ll just—come over.”

You smile.

“Good.”

And as you walk away, you can feel it again—that weight, that attention, that presence behind you.

But this time, it’s different.

Less like a warning.

More like something trying, awkwardly and stubbornly, to stay close.

Tonight, that feeling steadied itself to another rhythm.

Dan Heng lay beside you in the dim cabin of the Astral Express. The faint glow of passing stars slipped through the window and brushed over his peaceful, though tense, features. His spear leaned against the wall, his coat folded neatly on the chair. Everything was arranged with the careful precision he applied to all things. Yet despite the quiet room, his body remained rigid, his breath shallow, and his brow slightly furrowed.

A dream was pulling at him. A memory was clawing its way up from the depths he buried them in.

You sensed it before he even stirred.

You always did.

Being a Memokeeper meant feeling the shape of memory like others felt temperature or touch. Dan Heng's memories were sharp-edged things, shaped by guilt and loneliness, softened only in the rare moments he allowed others close. He never asked you to intervene. He never even asked for comfort. He merely tolerated it—quiet, grateful, but hesitant.

But he allowed you to be beside him.

And to a being like you, who had no flesh yet shaped one only to be near him, that meant more than any spoken confession.

A faint tremor moved through his breathing. His fingers curled against the sheets.

You reached out and placed your hand lightly over his.

Immediately, the dream shifted. You saw a flicker—not as an illusion or imagination, but as the raw imprint of memory trying to become something more permanent. A shadowy figure chased him across a fractured sky. The echo of hatred rang in a voice he knew all too well. The sting of failure and guilt hollowed him from the inside out. Old blood. Old pain.

Dan Heng's breath hitched.

You whispered softly, your voice a breeze between worlds.

“Easy, Dan Heng. I'm here.”

His fingers tightened around yours unconsciously.

That alone was enough permission.

Closing your eyes, you let your consciousness slip—not away from your form, but through it. Memokeepers were not tied to flesh, and though you wore this mortal shape for his sake, your true nature shimmered beneath it like water under moonlight. With a thought, with a breath, you followed the thread of his memory inward.

And the world around you changed.

The cabin dissolved into a storm of broken recollection: a desert sky in one direction, a collapsing palace in another, the roar of an unknown beast, the taste of regret hanging in the air. Memories never presented themselves cleanly; they were mosaics, fragments drifting like dust in the cosmic wind.

And in the middle of it all—Dan Heng, alone.

He stood there unaware of your presence, shoulders stiff as if bracing against a blow. The figure before him—blurry and faceless—lunged.

You stepped between them.

Your presence, shaped from Remembrance itself, shimmered like luminous thread.

The figure split apart, dissolving into dust.

Dan Heng froze, confused. His dream state didn’t register you as you truly were; he only saw you as he always saw you—grounding, gentle, quietly luminous in a way you never explained.

“…[Name]?” he breathed, his voice echoing as if he stood in a cave.

“It’s only a dream,” you murmured, letting the false ground soften beneath your feet until it became something gentler—an endless meadow, quiet and pale with starlight. “Not a memory. Not tonight.”

He looked around, tension slowly leaving his posture as the chaos dissipated. “You… changed it.”

“Only a little.” You smiled faintly. “You were hurting.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He paused—not rejecting, not accepting, only trying to understand. That was Dan Heng, always thoughtful to a fault. Always trying to bear his storms alone.

You stepped closer, the dream adjusting automatically to make space for you as if even the realm of memory knew your place beside him.

“This place…” he murmured, looking around. “It feels peaceful.”

“I made it from one of your childhood memories,” you said softly. “One you don’t look at anymore.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You saw that?”

“I only borrowed it.” You brushed your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’m not here to take. Only to protect.”

He looked down at your hand, then at you. His expression softened—just barely, but enough to reveal the vulnerable earnestness beneath his cool exterior.

“…Thank you.”

The words were quiet but real and heavy with sincerity.

“I’ll make sure you stay here,” you said, lifting your hand to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing gently along his jaw. “At least until morning.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch—a rare surrender, one he would never allow while awake.

“You don’t need to use your power for my sake,” he murmured.

“But I want to.” You smiled. “Memories define existence, Dan Heng. It’s the one truth my people believe above all else. I just… want yours to hold more than fear.”

He opened his eyes again. They were clearer now, starlight reflecting in them as if your presence calmed the storm inside him.

“You already do,” he said quietly.

Your nonhuman heart swelled.

“Then rest,” you whispered. “Let me guard you tonight.”

The dreamscape shimmered gently around the two of you. You guided him to sit in the grass. The soft wind, created from a half-forgotten moment of peace, combed through his hair. When you settled beside him, he leaned against your shoulder without hesitation.

“[Name],” he said after a moment, his voice low. “Do Memokeepers ever get tired?”

“Tired of what?”

“Carrying the memories of others.”

You considered it. “We don’t experience them the same way you do,” you said. “They don’t become burdens. They become stories.”

“Even painful ones?”

“Especially the painful ones.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“…I don’t want you to see mine.”

You smiled gently. “And yet I already have.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No.” You took his hand. “Because they mean you existed. And that you survived.”

His fingers curled around yours once more—but deliberately this time, not from fear.

“You speak like someone who’s seen lifetimes,” he said.

“I have,” you admitted. “But even after all of them, you’re still…” You hesitated. Still what?

Still someone I choose. Still someone I want to protect. Still someone whose memories I want to keep safe.

“…someone worth remembering,” you finished softly.

His breath hitched—a soft, almost imperceptible sound, but you caught it easily.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe them.”

You laughed quietly. “Good.”

The dream around you grew even calmer, the meadow extending endlessly beneath a gentle star-filled sky. The shadows that once lurked at the edges were gone, dissolved by your presence. He rested his forehead lightly against your shoulder, his breath evening out.

“Stay,” he whispered, the word barely audible.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

You wrapped your arm around him, guiding the dream into a serene blur—soft light, warm breeze, the faint scent of flowers he once liked as a child. You shaped the dream into safety and warmth, into something he deserved but never allowed himself.

His posture finally relaxed completely.

His heartbeat steadied.

And for the rest of the night, you kept watch over his memories—not altering the truths of his past, not erasing the weight he carried, but simply guarding him from the nightmares that tried to take root.

You were a Memokeeper.

And for him, you would be a keeper of peace.

When morning arrived, Dan Heng woke slowly, his hand still loosely tangled with yours. He blinked once, twice—the softness in his eyes matched the calm you had woven for him.

“…I slept well,” he murmured, almost surprised.

“I’m glad.”

He hesitated before adding softly:

“Stay with me again tonight?”

And you smiled, feeling that phantom heartbeat pulse warmly once more.

“Always.”

“I don’t need a damn machine watching over me,” Hank muttered as Connor followed the two of you across the bullpen, walking with that immaculate posture that somehow made people even angrier.

You glanced back at Connor.

He offered a polite, hopeful smile.

Poor guy.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor began, “I simply wish to—”

“Nope. Don’t wanna hear it.”

You stepped in before Hank could escalate.

“Hey, c’mon, Hank. He’s not doing anything wrong.”

Connor’s LED flickered in mild confusion.

Hank scowled at you like you’d chosen violence.

You were halfway through processing a crime scene when Connor crouched beside you, his eyes glowing faintly as he scanned evidence. Hank hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, broadcasting disapproval like a nuclear signal.

Connor leaned slightly closer, tone gentle.

“Detective, I believe I’ve identified—”

“Connor,” Hank barked, “if you say the word ‘analysis’ one more time—”

“Hank!” you cut in, exasperated. “He’s trying to help.”

Connor’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.

You could swear you heard a soft chime — relief?

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You didn’t know androids could sound almost… shy.

It quickly became a daily routine.

Connor offers help.

Hank threatens to break something.

You swoop in like Connor’s unofficial bodyguard.

When Connor tried handing Hank his coffee?

“I don’t need caffeine delivered by a glorified Roomba.”

You snatched the cup before Connor’s LED could flash to yellow.

“Hank! Drink your coffee and be nice.”

Connor looked at you with something suspiciously close to *gratitude-coded admiration*.

When Connor reported an observation mid-case?

“I swear to God, plastic boy—”

“Hank!” you snapped again.

“Stop verbally assaulting Connor.”

“I’m not assaulting him,” Hank said.

“I’m verbally educating him.”

“You’re traumatizing him!”

Connor blinked slowly.

“I am… not traumatized.”

“Don’t lie for him, Connor.”

Connor had no idea whose side he was supposed to be on.

Androids weren’t meant to stare — but Connor did.

Not in a creepy way.

In a processing something unfamiliar, intriguing, possibly mission-critical way.

Whenever you defended him, he straightened.

Whenever you smiled at him, his thirium pump kicked up a fraction.

Whenever you touched his arm while pulling Hank away from throwing hands… well, he almost blue-screened.

One afternoon, Hank stormed off after yelling something about androids ruining society.

Connor looked at you, LED spinning.

“Detective… Why do you defend me?”

You shrugged.

“Because you’re trying. And because you don’t deserve to be yelled at every thirty seconds.”

He tilted his head.

“I find your empathy… statistically rare.”

A beat.

Then:

“I like it.”

Your heart skipped.

He noticed.

His LED flickered for half a second before returning to blue.

You pretended not to see.

He pretended not to malfunction.

The next time Hank tried to “educate” Connor, you stepped between them again.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor said from behind you, “I believe Detective Y/L/N is preventing further physical altercations.”

“Damn right I am,” you muttered.

Hank threw his hands up.

“You know what? Fine. You two can babysit each other. I’m going to get lunch.”

He stomped off, leaving you and Connor standing close — too close — in the empty hallway.

Connor looked at you with something warmer than anything you’d ever expect from an android.

“Thank you… for protecting me.”

You smiled.

“Anytime.”

His LED glowed a soft, steady blue.